"I’ve got a heart that always lands a few cities over.
I’m trying to make a home and she
is navigating the highways back to me.
I don’t define myself by love,
but by the absence of it,
like negative space in a painting:
these are the years I pulled myself up by the roots
and those are the ones where I dug through my ribcage
into the meat of my lungs
looking for dinosaur bones.
I write my heart letters, sometimes—
long distance phone calls to my own chest
just to see if they’re treating her right.
I ask if the stars where she is
are more friendly than the unwashed dishes
in my kitchen sink:
how they’ve started to look
like a toothy skyline beneath the faucet moon.
I’ve spent years feeling like
the right person under the wrong sky,
and maybe my meandering heart has got it right.
Because I am every Sunday morning in the sun:
the sound of the coffee pot when it runs out of water.
I’ve got a love so big she goes road tripping without me.
Because my chest is the size of a medicine cabinet
with the shelves pulled out,
and my heart always finds her way back to me,
If healing means I’ve got to set my heart free, a while,
if it means I’ve got to let her see the world and come back wizened,
if it means living with my hands pressed to the place
where she used to be—
then it will be worth the day she comes home,
and I open the hinge to my chest and remember
all the faces, all the love, I have ever known."
▼ Two Towns Over
, by Ashe Vernon (via rampias
(Source: latenightcornerstore, via universul)